


la chance aband celui qui ne sait

by roseisreturning



Series: chick habit [4]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseisreturning/pseuds/roseisreturning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minnesota is cold and lonely and the home of a girl whose cousin leaves numbers in bathroom stalls. Delphine is cold and lonely enough to text the numbers left on bathroom stalls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	la chance aband celui qui ne sait

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for implied sexy tomfoolery and food mention  
> inspired by this tumblr post: http://scamdal.tumblr.com/post/88764520133/

It is just warmer than twenty below zero when you land.

The airport is worse, warm in an almost suffocating way. And you—trapped beside a man who seemed to be refusing to move—kind of need a bathroom desperately.

The line is bad-but-not-awful, just long enough for you to think about needing to replace your phone, then realizing yours will be the only American number you know. You are just understanding that this means you are alone in this country when the next stall opens up.

The stall itself is remarkably clean, save for one note in thin, angular Sharpie.

_Cosima_

_415-993-5601_

You understand that this woman could be anywhere, and you understand that she is possibly not the first friend you would want to make. You add her to your contacts anyway.

You get your phone the following morning, which feels almost like some kind of comment on modern social values; the only reason you had had a bed at all was by Audrey’s insistence that you get a furnished apartment for at least your first semester.

Audrey is the second person to know your new number.

The first is Cosima.

 _Hi!_ you type. _New country, new phone._ _This is Delphine._ _J_

After you hit _send_ , you realize none of this means anything to her. She replies before you have a chance to clarify.

_who?? sorry haha i’m really bad at names_

You realize that this is probably pathetic and desperate and awkward and not at all the kind of conversation she had intended to be having. You reply anyway.

 _You don’t know me, but, um, I assumed your vandalism was—_ You don’t know how to finish the sentence.You add an ellipses and send it as is.

_what??_

You consider backing out.

You don’t. _In the bathroom?_

_haha wrong number sorry man.._

_Okay,_ you reply.

Three minutes later, she texts back. _wait omfg did you really just get here_ She is quick enough in starting a second message that you don’t reply. _was it an airport bathroom??_

_Yes…_

Instantly, _omfg_

Then, _i have to text someone one sec_

 _Okay,_ you write again.

You wait.

After five minutes, you decide she’s _probably_ not actually going to be texting you anymore, and consider briefly signing up for a dating site before you realize that you still kind of have to unpack at some point. (You realize also that your carry-on is open only from this morning’s blouse hunt, and feel slightly more guilty.) The following three minutes are spent assessing your apartment without leaving your bed.

Fifteen seconds into minute four, your phone buzzes.

_ok i figured it out but like idk if you care? (cousin decided i needed a hookup???)_

Another text comes in from her a few seconds later.

_did you want to hook up??_

_No,_ you type, which, you are ashamed to admit to yourself, is mostly because you don’t feel like leaving your apartment or putting a bra back on, and it is probably a little bit soon to know that she is definitively _not_ a serial killer.

She takes a few more minutes to reply, and you consider _actually_ unpacking. Your phone buzzes just as you start sliding off your bed.

It’s an image, followed by four-ish words: _this is me btw_

The picture is dark and grainy and appears to have been taken directly in front of a framed copy of the periodic table and dangerously close to a ceiling. Still, she is kind of adorable in way you can’t quite place. You decide it is probably the glare on her glasses, which is entirely ridiculous, and type your reply.

_Is it too late to change my answer? (I’m kidding. I think I’m feeling too lazy anyway.)_

You hit _send_ , then begin the dreaded scroll through your photos.

You eventually find one that gives you the appearance of a life outside of transatlantic flights and handwritten agendas.

It doesn’t present you in a particularly interesting light, and literally speaking, the lighting isn’t necessarily the best, but you figure a not-quite-drunk birthday photo is, at the very least, better than a 3 a.m. airport selfie.

 _omg,_ Cosima writes when she sees this, _let me guess who you are…_

_Do you want a hint?_

You think she may set a record with how quickly her reply comes in. _NO!!!_

Then, _3rd from the left?_

_No._

_ummm second to last_

_Still no._ _J_

She sends out several messages over the course of two minutes. Most of them read _don’t tell me._ Three say simply, _hmmmm…._

Finally she says, _omg are you the one with the hair? 4th from the left??_

_Yes hahaha._

_duuuuuuuuude,_ she replies, _this is so weird (and you don’t look at all how i pictured you huh)_

_You were not how I pictured you either._

_yeahhh_

You wait for her to say something else and try to get at least enough into the open that you can survive another week.

She doesn’t say anything else.

You don’t say anything else either, to be fair, but you realize that this stranger is the only person you’ve texted since arriving.

You send everyone in your contacts the same message. _New American number. This is Delphine!_ _J_

You get a flood of texts and calls following this announcement. None of them are from Cosima.

Somehow, you are surprised by this.

You are more surprised just under a month later, when a girl in a red coat stops you on your way back from class.

“Hey!” she yells from too far ahead. “I know you!”

You want to tell her that she probably doesn’t, because your new Minnesotan social life is a little too sad for anyone to know you. She appears to have figured this out on her own, having retreated into her phone.

Immediately following this observation, your phone buzzes.

You have a new text from airport girl.

_dude i think i see you.. i kinda yelled sorry_

You feel more than a little embarrassed, but you’re not quite sure if it’s because you forgot about her, or because this is pretty much the most exciting thing that’s happened in the past three weeks.

 _Oh,_ you reply.

Seventeen seconds after this, Cosima tugs on your sleeve with force that is probably not good for your coat’s longevity and says, “Come on.”

You understand that agreeing to follow a total stranger to an unknown location is logically not the best idea.

You do it anyway.

“So,” Cosima asks, “did you, like, not remember me or…?”

“It was not the best picture…”

“Nah? I thought the glare was a good look for me.”

“It was a little, um…”

She grins. “Shady?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, uh, here I am. I can, like, show you my ID if you want. Like, so you know I go here or whatever.”

“It’s fine,” you tell her, mostly because her purse is even bigger than yours and probably even harder to fish through.

She nods and doesn’t really say anything else and it’s awkward and quiet and you can’t really meet her eyes.

“You should tell your cousin about this,” you say.

Cosima groans. “Oh my god. She did it in the men’s, too. These assholes just text me like, ‘dtf?’ and I’m like, ‘You could literally be a serial killer.’”

“So could I.”

“Yeah,” she says, “but at least I would have known your name.”

You laugh, because this is essentially the same thought that you’ve been using to keep yourself from bolting, and Cosima beams like this is the best thing to happen to her all day, which it probably isn’t.

“So, like, this is only my second semester here,” she tells you, hands moving to illustrate some point which has not yet been made, “so I’m not that much better off than you, but…” (She laughs, looking embarrassed and confused and a kind of happy you don’t understand.) “Do you wanna get some ice cream?”

“Ice cream?” you ask.

She grins. “Yeah. I’ve kind of been living off of it for the past six months.”

“Mm. I’ll have to try it, then.”

She leans into you, a closeness you mind less than you should. “Today?”

“It’s too cold!”

“Dude,” Cosima says, “you moved to Minnesota.”

This is, in all fairness, as good a point as she could make, but you shake your head. “I’ll text you when it’s warmer.”

“Come on,” she says, slowing her walk just enough that you have to make a conscious effort to keep with her. “This is, like, the closest you’re ever gonna get to fate.”

This makes you feel closer than you’d like to an absolute breakdown, because you had a boyfriend up until two days before you left and you’re not really over him and admitting this would lead to several unasked questions with answers that would probably make her hate you.

You tell her instead that you don’t believe in fate, which is not necessarily true but not quite a lie.

She laughs at this. “You don’t? This is, like, totally weird, but, like, to what extent? I’m—“ She laughs again, a hand sweeping in front of her, backtracking. “I’m studying, uh— I’m a dork, honestly. I just really want to know to what extent you think people are, like, entirely in control of their own destiny… or whatever…”

You are trying to explain this without sounding terribly pretentious, then find yourself saying, “I mean, looking at it through science, it’s—“ before Cosima cuts you off.

“Science?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because the number of people who like hearing about science in discussions of fate is probably even lower than the number of people who like hearing about science at all.

She’s laughing—breathless, actually, as she says, “No, oh my god, don’t! I’m, just— Oh my god.”

You remember the periodic table hanging behind her, and feel a disproportionate amount of relief at being able to speak as yourself, and begin again. “So, um—in science—there’s, um… There are a few roads we could take, you know? I mean—I mean this both in an answer and as a way to, you know… to say that there are a lot of ways to look at fate in science, but… I assume you know this… But I think, um…” You think on the way Cosima is looking at you and the way she _gets you_ and a little too much on the fact that you have on a very nice bra “It would be better to… go along with it… You know, whether something is fate or luck or, um… _asshole relatives._ ”

“Smooth,” she says, but she walks you back to her apartment.

(You are only momentarily distracted by the periodic table hanging just above the bed.) 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry for this?? i mostly wrote this to try and get a hang of how to write delphine's voice (and myyy voice) for the mermaid au which is a thing that's happening. and also because i can't pass up those tumblr au posts even during a long night of chem homework. i'm sorry. i'm just sorry. but idk. i hope you liked this anyway?


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